A Matter of Trust
by kiku65
Summary: They would come. They had to come. But as each day went by it grew harder to say. Oneshot. Whump, with a twist in the tale...


_**A/N- **_This is my first dive into the midst (mists?) of SGA fanfiction, so be nice. There is death, but Shep-lovers... trust me.

**Disclaimer:** I don't even own this computer.

**Summery: **They would come. They had to come. But as each day went by it grew harder to say.

**o.O.o**

_I have lost my freedom, and hell is now beginning._

_- Albert Camus_

**o.O.o**

He was trapped.

It had been his own fault. He had let himself be taken, even when everyone knew: _never be taken alive_. Better dead than a prisoner. But he hadn't wanted to die, not in the dirt as he lay there in pain, so he had let them stun him, take him away... to here.

He had regretted it at once. But it didn't matter.

_They will come. _

He just had to wait.

X

He was cold.

This place was freezing. Cold stone, cold metal, cold eyes of guards that stared through the bars of the cage (_try something, one had said once, try something, and I am here_), daring him to move or speak. Cold words and colder thoughts. Cold feelings that numbed his hopes. But he ignored the chill and focused inwards, where the bitter, bitter cold couldn't reach, where he was safe from the eyes and the words.

Words were rare here.

The silence swallowed everything; even the small, repetitive noises – breathing, pit-pat of falling water somewhere (_it was driving him mad_), scrape of stone and rustle of clothing... they all became part of the silence, woven into a smothering blanket that was one with the cold, and the dark.

He kept his own silence. It was all he had here.

But inside he recited a mantra to keep the cold-dark-quiet away.

_They will come. _

X

He was calm.

He had no other weapon against them, against the eyes and silence and taunts. He ignored the first, broke the next with his certainty (_they would come_) and responded to the last with confidence he could still feel – even here.

The confidence infuriated them... one in particular. One he was starting to hate (_wait until they come, wait until I am free_) would goad him, hoping he would lose his temper and say something foolish (_keep on hoping, I will tell you nothing_). He responded in kind.

He knew he should stay silent, but he was sick of the quiet (_far too quiet_). And all other times he said nothing.

He would never tell them anything. He wouldn't be here long enough to break.

It was a matter of trust.

_They will come. _

X

He was dreaming.

The darkness was a blessing. If he half-closed his eyes, ignored the walls, and the cold, and the flat, hateful eyes of the guards he could almost imagine he was home. The cold was still sharp there, but it was lost in the contentment that dawns when you are where you are supposed to be.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

_They will come. _

X

He was in pain.

A living, breathing fire-creature burned in his gut and clawed at his throat, screaming for release. He had never imagined his own body could turn against him (_and now he was truly alone_), and wondered when the real torture would begin. He had expected torture from the start, but he had been left to the cold (_the silence_) and the pain that ate at him through their neglect.

But they would have to start soon, because he _would not break_. Would it be worse?

But how could anything be worse than this?

He hoped to never find out, but he knew he might.

No, never. He wouldn't be here that long.

_They will come. _

X

He was defiant.

They had started with the question; he had known they would. The sneering, taunting man – who he was starting to call other names silently, not nearly as nice – was starting, probing and prodding (_who, what, where?_), and getting nowhere. He had almost started to look forward to these talks (_almost_), for lack of anything else to look forward to. Eventually, he knew, there would be no more _almost_.

Eventually, he knew, he would want _anything_ to break the silence.

But every time the man came down he knew; that day was not today.

_They will come. _

X

He was homesick.

The silent sitting had progressed to brooding, then waking dreams. He would sit and think of his home, of his friends (_where _were_ they?_), of his old life, and he would make a dream so real he could _feel_ the rightness of it, that special mixture of taste and smell and touch and sound and sight you only ever got in your home.

Then he would wake, and the dream would shatter, leaving him worse off than before.

What was _keeping_ them? Did they even know where he was?

He told himself (_hold on, hold on_) and the guards (_you wait until I am free_) and the smug, sneering interrogator (_you will not be so brave then_) as well that he would be rescued, but he wasn't sure if any believed that anymore. Not even himself.

Had they given up?

_Please no, please no._

He had to hold on. He couldn't surrender to fear.

He couldn't let them win.

_They will come. _

X

He was lonely.

He was used to having others around him; used to leading (_he had lead them when he was captured_) and being led (_and what was keeping her from rescue?_). Used to companionship. Used to words that didn't question, but supported. Used to warmth instead of icy freezing.

He knew if he didn't leave here soon he might never feel warmth again.

He told himself he would, he would leave (_soon, soon_), he would be rescued, but it had ebbed from a certainty to a mere hope. A strong hope, but still... just a hope.

But even hope was comforting here.

_They will come. _

X

He was cracking.

It had been too long, too long without relief or food, and now his anger was starting to break through walls of rigid defiance. He let his frustration show now, taking it out on the walls (_which hurt_), on his questioner (_only with words, unfortunately_), _anything_, anything that would not shatter as did his dreams of home.

He felt the interrogator's eyes follow him, and knew that _he_ knew things were reaching crisis point.

He had to be strong (_don't break_). He had to be strong (_watch what you say_). Don't tell them anything, don't break, _don't give up because you know they are coming for you, you know they are, you must, _they_ must. _

He calmed himself time after time, chanting the words where they couldn't be heard by his enemies.

_They will come. _

X

He was suffering.

He was in constant agony now – collected, condensed into a hollow clawing thing like a black hole in the very centre of his being. He wondered sometimes if it would drive him mad.

He wondered sometimes if it already had.

He could picture home still, but he could no longer feel it. He could remember his old life, but it sometimes felt a bit... unreal. Like a dream.

As if there had never been anything but this cold cell, these cold eyes, these cold words.

His calmness had become his only comfort now, his questioner his only companion. Sometimes he saw the man's eyes and recognised... what? Understanding? Respect? Maybe just amusement, seen through the eyes of the desperate.

He was still strong. And he still held out hope.

_They will come. _

X

He was dieing.

_Pain_, nothing but pain… he could barely breathe, panting in rapid, ragged gasps, the calm only a thing of memory. What use did the dieing have for false confidence?

Dieing. He was dieing. Dieing in a cage (_like an animal_), slowly (_far too slowly_), by inches (_oh please, make it quick_). He had never expected things to end this way. He had always thought... what? That he would die in battle, maybe. Die for a reason... not because of a _mistake_.

It was... _unfair_.

_But he had won_. He felt himself grin starkly as the agony ate away at his life. He had given them nothing of value, and now he was going where they couldn't find him, while they would stay and be killed – he hoped – in ways even more painful.

He was free.

He sunk to the ground and let the pain carry him away (_away from the cold, from the silence)._ As his consciousness faded he felt only a slight sadness.

_They didn't come. _

**o.O.o**

"It didn't turn out well, did it?"

He didn't turn. There was no need, and he didn't feel like talking.

"No."

Apparently the other didn't care. A pair of elbows appeared on the balcony beside him, another set of eyes watched the sun go down.

"You didn't get anything from him?"

"Something. Not much." Certainly not enough to merit two weeks of captivity... two weeks wasted it seemed. For everyone concerned.

A hand clapped his shoulder comfortingly, the words less so.

"Still, at least his friends didn't turn up, right?"

He nodded, wanting to send the other away. As his plan worked he looked at the streaks of red and gold over the sea.

He knew what his comrade meant. Their enemy had promised them hideous ends for his captivity; it had threatened the watcher himself with being killed at its own hands. It had been proved wrong. _He_ was alive and free, while the prisoner lay cold and still in death.

And yet... and yet, its utter belief in his friends, proved wrong, and so very like the watcher's, made him wonder...

Would there be a time when _his_ friends didn't show up?

John Sheppard shivered and turned away from the sunset, as below him Steve's cell was being hosed down.


End file.
